10.04.2015

I am so pleased to share with youMadhu Kaza's Accademia: A Tourist's Guide. Kaza looks closely at Venetian art, "letting [her] attention land where it wanted," keeping alive rather than collapsing the gap between the art's contemporary moment and the present as she notices and marks her encounter with it in real time, seeing who is in the streets of Venice, in the paintings on the walls, observing what one might find by zooming in, attending to the small detail, seeing the discrepancies and resonances across time. Enjoy!

Accademia:
A Tourist’s Guide*

Madhu Kaza

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[detail
of “Miracle of the Cross at the Bridge of San Lorenzo,” Gentile Bellini. c. 1500]

﻿

* Located in the Dorsoduro section of Venice,
the Gallerie dell’Accademia hold a collection of pre-19th century
Venetian art.

Introduction:

What if I walked through the doors of Europe (I
am an immigrant, but not there; the doors swing open easily) casting aside much
of my education, the narrow ways in which I’d been schooled to think about
culture, history and art? What if I wandered through France and Italy not in a
posture of submission, and not as a student of Western Civilization? I know
Europe well, even if I’ve hardly spent any time there. I know how greedy (how
desperate) it is for affirmation of its superiority to all other places. There is so much that is particular and
beautiful there, no different from any place else with its own particular
beauty.

What if I walked through the galleries of the
Accademia letting my attention land where it wanted?

When I saw the painting, “Miracle of the Cross
at the Bridge of San Lorenzo,” I wondered what the canals were like in the 15th
century; today no one swims or bathes in the water. But I didn’t spend much
time reading about Gentile Bellini and the nature and symbolism of the
“miracle” he depicted. Instead this image made me think of the bodies of
migrants and refugees that were in the waters off the Italian coasts. I’ve long
been trained to look for beauty and to prostrate myself in the pursuit of
knowledge. But I noticed when I had left the galleries that all the photos I
had taken were of details, and that when I had looked at the paintings I had
looked through them, reaching for something else: a correspondence.

*

[detail of “The Marriage of
St. Monica,” Antonio Vivarini. c. 1441]

Why anyone might love Lila, the brilliant friend in Elena
Ferrante’s novel, My Brilliant Friend, is because she is a brutal girl
with a voracious intellect-- no saint. She won’t be loved by a man.

The Camorrist Marcello Solara has asked for her hand in marriage.
She flatly says no and abuses him. She had already threatened him with a knife
long before he fell in love with her. Perhaps that’s why he fell in love with
her. In time (two thirds of the way through the novel), he begins to attend
dinner every night at her parents’ house and acts as if he owns her anyway. She
refuses to speak to him or acknowledge him at all. He tells her that if she begins
to see anyone else he will kill her.

There’s a scroll of text at the bottom of the painting by Vivarini
[not included here] that reads “this is how St. Monica was sent to her husband
by her father and her mother.”

*

A woman not unlike “La Vecchia” was sitting on a
bench near that hiccup of a bridge that leads inland from the Giardini landing.
Giorgione’s portrait shocked me when I came upon it after all those 15th
century paintings of Madonna and Child or of various saints in their blessed robes.
Or portraits of noblemen. Giorgione flew across the centuries toward us, that
is how it seemed. I felt suddenly that Giorgione was someone I knew, or could
know.

This is a country of the old and the dying someone said to me. The
woman on the bench at Giardini was smaller in frame than La Vecchia, her
features more refined. She was not quite the peasant, but she was an ordinary
woman. She sat with three other elders on that bench and the rest of them
seemed jovial. She sat very slightly apart. It was how she held her hand,
that’s what I noticed. In a fist, almost pointing to herself.

You’d know in any case that he was an angel by
this detail. Messengers are always fleet-footed (winged near the ankles, in
truth). Look at his beautiful sandals. Light of step, he touches ground but he
is of the air, always about to lift away.

And the folds of the dress, like crumpled
paper.

*

There was one Bangla child this morning on Via Garibaldi in bright
blue shoes, scooting around with one hand on the handlebar of his blue scooter
and holding a pink balloon in the other. He was maybe three or four, an age at
which one delights in spells of worldly and bodily autonomy. Such was his joy
and assuredness that I did not look past him in search of parents. But of the
African and South Asian communities of Venice, those who live and work here, so
far I have otherwise only seen men on the street.

They
have always been here.

detail of “La Cena en Emmaus,” Marco Marziale. c.
1506]

*

He’s a
beautiful man (in the 15th century way). When I look at the
portraits, snapshots, selfies of our own times in which people are most often
smiling, their expression reaching towards the viewer, I look for what’s not
given, what’s unknowable. I search for a sign that a person has faced a camera
and kept something for herself.

There’s
no need to look for this opacity in 15th century portraits. The
figures don’t reveal themselves easily. You can read the signs: the clothing,
the color, the ornaments that demonstrate their status, but they remain
recessive. And so, what delights me, here, is this hand, how it moves the
portrait of the man forward. His hand rests lightly at that border, the
threshold between his world and ours.

[detail of “Portrait of a Young Man,” Hans Memling]

﻿

*

I sat on
the steps of Piazza San Marco, opposite the church, in late afternoon unable to
move. I wasn’t yet ready to stand up and walk back into the sun. But something
else, too. I felt in those moments that whatever was happening in the world,
whatever there was to see, it was also happening here, but in the reduced form
of stone and flesh. Then a group of Indian tourists walked by, weaving color
back into the world.

In this
portrait of Italians and Levantines, this is where I see Indians.

Cities
and Signs. In each city, perhaps, I will end up finding the same things, though
differently arranged. A ruin, a library, a museum, a hospital, an orphanage, a
wound, a gift. Built in the 16th century the Hospital of the Incurables was
once a place for syphilis patients to come and die. Later it became an
orphanage. Later still the building functioned as a juvenile court. I’m not
sure if its true that the building now houses some part of the Academy of Fine
Arts. It sounds true. And isn’t it true that there was a plaque on the same
brick wall that said Joseph Brodsky loved this place?

Madhu Kaza was born in Andhra Pradesh, India and works as an artist, educator, writer and translator in New York City. Her performance work on the theme of "hospitality" has been produced in New York, Minnesota, Baltimore, Boston and India. She has published translations of poetry from Spanish and a collection of short storiesby the Indian writer Volga from Telugu. She is at work on a novel currently entitled “Afterlife.”